To be honest neither have I. Thus, the curse of my terrible
condition is that even the whiff of something a bit orf can send me into a swift
descent towards incapacity.

The entirety of last week was a write off (is that how you
spell it?) and I spent most of it in furious, frustrated rage. Like a goose in
a straight jacket.

I managed to crawl into work to sit behind my desk and
listen to the relentless chatter of gibbons. I often feel like a reluctant Dian Fossey.

There was talk last week of giving out prizes. Lord knows
what for, or who to for that matter, either way I have a sneaking suspicion that
PETA may have been involved somewhere along the line.

I spend most of my life sitting quietly and listening. A muted
albatross.

As I sit there quietly and politely in my place I am forced
to listen to someone dribbling dense and putrid, gormless, verbosity. Spilling
it from their frothing mouths and pouring it incoherently across my face.

All I can do in response is sit. Quietly and politely whilst
screaming in my head.